


parallax

by oryx



Category: Kamen Rider Drive, Kamen Rider Series
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5165882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone keeps beating Gou in photography competitions. He's determined to find out who.</p>
            </blockquote>





	parallax

**Author's Note:**

> PARALLAX - the difference between what is seen through the viewfinder and what the camera records on film

Masaki Kenichi.

Gou is really starting to get sick of that name. He sees it at almost every exhibition – people flocking in droves around Masaki’s photos while sparing Gou’s only a passing glance. He sees that name at every photography competition, too, where he often comes in second or third but Masaki is always, always first, and never even has the courtesy to show up in person to claim his golden prize.

“Masaki-san couldn’t be with us today,” the announcer says, and the words dig like claws into Gou’s skin, setting his teeth on edge, because he’s heard that same thing so many times before.

Is he even a real person, this Masaki Kenichi? At the very least it has to be a pseudonym, what with his glaringly obvious absence at every event and function. Nobody seems to know anything about him, other than what his photos tell – he travels here and there, he appreciates the beauty of nature, especially nature undisturbed by human hands, and he seems (though this might just be in Gou’s mind) to be looking for something in every photograph. Searching for something that keeps eluding his grasp.

That’s the worst part of it, really. That Gou can’t deny his skill. Masaki’s photos are better than his in every way – a rare talent, pure and lovely and simplistic in a way that speaks to people, that makes them stop and stare. When he sees Masaki’s book on a shelf at the local bookstore he does the same thing: slows his pace, caught up in the stillness of the image on the cover. A wintery field at night, a nearly-full moon and a bruised, purplish sky, with snow so untouched it almost creates a mirror.

He buys the book grudgingly, and leans against his bike in the parking lot as he flips through it.

“He’s not so great,” Gou mutters, staring at a photo of mossy, sun-shadowed stone steps winding up towards a distant temple, at the delicate balance of light and dark, at the angle that perfectly draws the viewer’s eye. His hand traces the edges of the driver’s license in his pocket. “I could do better than this if I got serious, y’know?”

(As usual, Chase does not reply.)

 

 

“Hey, I need a favor,” Gou says, pushing his way through Kyu’s front door and slinging an arm around his shoulders before he has time to protest.

“It – it’s not something illegal, is it?” Kyu asks, adjusting his glasses. “‘Cause the way you’re smiling is honestly making me kind of nervou – ”

Gou waves a dismissive hand to cut him off. “Don’t worry about it. I just need you to look someone up, is all. Do a little digging. Just like old times, right?”

“Right,” Kyu echoes, sounding somewhat unconvinced.

“Y’know,” and here Gou leans in a little closer, “if you help me out, I might just pick you up a copy of that limited edition English dubbed Murmur Mansion boxset when I go back to the states.”

A quiet gasp. “Th-the one that’s always sold out online? With the special cover art and DVD designs?”

Gou nods and watches, bemused, as what’s left of Kyu’s conflict quickly fades away. Got him in one.

Masaki doesn’t have much to his fake name, but he does have an e-mail. Using some methods that “you have to promise not to tell anyone about, okay? this is supposed to be for police stuff only,” Kyu manages to pull up a list of recently received messages, including one from the Tokyo Photographer’s Institute confirming that his latest prize winnings have been delivered. There’s an account number in with the banking info, and some further searching into said account turns up a name. Kurihara Amane.

“She just looks like a normal kid,” Kyu says as he scrolls through the Kurihara girl’s Instagram – photos of her friends and what she had for lunch yesterday, of clouds outside a window and hands resting against an old guitar. Cluttered, amateurish pictures with none of Masaki’s genius to them.

But even if she isn’t Masaki, she must be close to him somehow. Why else would all his prize money go straight to a savings account in her name?

Kyu looks a little deeper into Kurihara and manages to find a place of residence – a family restaurant on the outskirts of town that doubles as a home address.

“Are you… gonna try and meet him?” he asks, peering up at Gou. “This Masaki guy? What would you even say?”

Gou hesitates before shrugging, feigning nonchalance as he enters the address into his phone.

Lately he hasn’t been much for thinking ahead.

 

 

“Jacaranda” looks like it should’ve been left in the previous decade. How an old-fashioned place like this is still in business is beyond Gou’s understanding, and when he steps inside he’s unsurprised to find it quiet and empty except for a mother and two kids at a table in the corner.

“Welcome,” a voice says, and Gou acknowledges it with a distracted “hmm,” glancing around as he takes a seat at the counter. There are photographs on the wall that have a familiar, Masaki-like vibe to them, though their composition is far less polished and their colours are faded. Washed out from years of sun exposure, undoubtedly.

“Can I get you something?” that voice says. Gou turns to find a man staring at him expectantly from behind the counter – a small, self-contained sort of person, his age difficult to pinpoint, with a stoic expression that seems out of place in these quaint suburban surroundings.

“Uh, yeah, just a coffee for now,” Gou says. The man nods, and Gou finds himself watching his hands as he preps the coffee maker. “Actually, I’m kind of looking for someone. You know anyone who’s seriously into photography?” He gestures towards the photos on the wall. “Like that or,” and here he takes Masaki’s book from his bag and slides it across the countertop, “like this?”

The man blinks down at the book for a moment, his features unreadable. “…Seems familiar,” he says finally.

“Really? You think you could – ”

The phone rings, then, interrupting him mid-sentence, and the man excuses himself to answer it. Gou isn’t even trying to eavesdrop, not really, but in a place as quiet as this he can’t help but overhear a few snippets of conversation.

“Yeah, things are fine… I’m not the one who almost burned down the kitchen last year…” His back is turned, but Gou can see the corner of his mouth curve into a smile. “A souvenir? It’s not a snowglobe again, is it? … No, that’s…” A sigh, caught somewhere between exasperated and amused. “Please don’t drink too much, Amane-chan. You’re still underage, you know.”

At that, Gou sits up a little straighter in his seat.

The man says his goodbyes and returns to his post at the counter, seemingly unconcerned with the way Gou is staring at him.

“You… you’re him, aren’t you? You’re Masaki.”

“Depends why you’re asking,” he says without missing a beat, focused on the cup of coffee he’s pouring.

Gou opens his mouth and then closes it again. Why is he here? This is all pretty pathetic, isn’t it? Even for him. Tracking this guy down like he’s some sort of criminal. And for what?

“How do you do it?” he asks, the words slipping out before he can help himself. “How do you… take pictures like that? I just,” and here he huffs out a quiet, weary laugh, “I try so fucking hard, y’know? But nothing I do even comes close.”

For a time the man says nothing. He sets Gou’s coffee in front of him and stares thoughtfully at the curls of steam rising from it, a faint frown curving his mouth.

“You have to want it,” he says finally. “Or, more like… If there’s something you want, you have to imagine it’s there in front of you. That you’re looking at it through the lens.” He glances up at Gou with a raised eyebrow. “At least, that’s what works for me.”

Gou can feel his brow furrow. The hell does that mean? he almost asks, but the man is turning away, greeting a pair of salarymen who’ve wandered in for lunch.

“The usual please, Aikawa-san,” one of them says, and he – Aikawa – nods. He’s about to head back into the kitchen when he pauses, procuring a pen from his pocket and scribbling something on a napkin. He slides it across the counter to Gou. It’s a map of sorts – rudimentary and hastily-drawn, but understandable nonetheless.

“There’s some nice scenery around here,” he says. “If you’re searching for inspiration… It might be worth a look.”

And with that he vanishes into the kitchen without another word, leaving Gou alone at the counter with only his coffee and his thoughts.

 

 

Aikawa was right about the scenery.

His makeshift map leads Gou out past the suburbs and up a twisting mountain road, where he stops every few minutes to take a photo of the forest around him, which is turning to shades of orange and gold as autumn starts to settle in. The map ends at a bridge overlooking a gorge, trees growing slanted along its slopes and a clear, shallow creek cutting a swath through its center. The sun is on the verge of setting, and as it sinks lower in the sky the light hits the water just right – a ribbon of gleaming copper winding into the distance.

‘Picturesque’ would definitely be the word for it, Gou thinks, lifting his camera and snapping a quick shot. But still, something isn’t quite right. What was it Aikawa said? “You have to want it”?

Gou laughs, incredulous, and tries to ignore the tightness in his throat. What kind of vague, bullshit advice is that? Probably just something he tells people to get them off his back.

Gou stares out at the view for a long moment.

He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, he can see it there in front of him – that familiar outline. That mop of dark hair, and that face. Calm, thoughtful, maybe a little somber, but not expressionless. (Never expressionless.) He’s standing there in front of the railing with the sun behind his back, and when he sees Gou adjusting the lens he lifts his hand in a reflexive peace sign. 

“Smile,” Gou says, and as the shutter closes he imagines that stoic face breaking into a broad grin, brilliant and purely happy, just like the one that stares up at him from the driver’s license.

 

 

(Later, when he develops the film, he likes that photo best.)


End file.
